


Binary Stars

by IneffableSamael



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: And Too Many Astronomy Metaphors, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Declarations Of Love, First Kiss, Getting Together, Idiots in Love, Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), POV Crowley (Good Omens), Pining, Pining Aziraphale (Good Omens), Pining Crowley (Good Omens), Post-Canon, Repression, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-09-27 10:54:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20406553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IneffableSamael/pseuds/IneffableSamael
Summary: Crowley's flat says nothing of Hell, and Aziraphale's bookshop says nothing of Heaven.(A story of dinner at the Ritz—and what came after. Two parts, two points of view.)





	1. You Called Me Unforgivable

_ (London, 2019. After lunch _ — _ and dinner _ — _ at the Ritz.) _

* * *

Crowley’s flat says nothing of Hell.

You might even think he was pacing the halls of Heaven, back and forth along the sterile white walls, running black-tipped fingers along the edges. Not a mote of dust could be seen—he wouldn’t allow such a thing. Not in his own private paradise.

He glances back down the hall, back in the little nook that others might use for curling up with a book, where you can see the most verdant expressions of life: ferns and philodendrons, their leaves unfurling with perfect mathematical symmetry, like fractals in the diffused daylight of the northern windows. Their hues are so rich they could be called gemstones, like emerald or jade or chrysoprase—something so rare it must be dug out from underneath the earth, found covered in dirt and rotting things (is there a difference between the two?), likely rather rough around the edges. Something that takes time, gentleness, and a steady, resolute hand to reveal the natural shine it once had.

Crowley, of course, has never given his plants any of those things. Why would he, when intimidation had already been so effective at keeping them in line? When the slightest deviance could result in a one-way trip down, down the garbage disposal, the others never dared to show yellow. It was simpler that way. Use the first to fuck up as an example, and the rest surely would never stray. (Or so he assumed.)

But today, he doesn’t want to linger in his garden, so let’s move on.

He walks back toward the dining room, each foot directly in line with the other as he traces an S curve toward the gilded Italian Renaissance chair. His eyes trace the artwork lining the room as he goes, and he thinks about the exact moment he acquired each one: he looks at the sketch of the Mona Lisa and thinks of how Da Vinci’s infectious zeal for invention outweighed his understanding of physics (but not by so terribly much, Crowley had mused—he would’ve loved to see the inventor’s eyes sparkle as he witnessed today’s steel machines soaring through the sky). The sculpture of a demon subduing an angel takes prominence, of course; whenever the other demons checked in through his flat screen, he’d had to have something to declare his allegiance (though he’s never mentioned to them that, when first appraising the piece, he’d put a hand to his chin and asked the proud young artist, smirk tugging at his lips: “Are you completely certain they’re _ wrestling?”_).

And, down the other hall, partly obscured in shadow, he can see the statue of an eagle. Its wings are unfurled, tips just slightly burnt. He could have miracled it whole again, after he’d stolen it from the ruins of the church; however, even though it didn’t quite match the aesthetic of the rest of his home, he rather liked it imperfect, a bit charred and desecrated. He keeps it down the darkest hall, back toward the bedroom, away from any prying eyes.

Finally, he’s reached his throne. From here, his legs swung up on the pristine table, he can rule his kingdom of one. No one can tell him to put his feet down.

Only—it’s rather, well, _ quiet _in here, isn’t it?

Right now, in what is a starless, still night outside, he wants to unwind. These last few days had wrung everything out of him. Confronting Satan, outwitting the highest generals of both Heaven and Hell—it had taken every last once of resolve he’d had.

Though, if we’re being honest here, it’s not the roar of his grotesque once-master or Lord Beelzebub’s sneer of _“Crowley, the traitor” _ that makes him slip farther back in his chair. When he closes his eyes, what he sees is the blaze of what he’d first believed was hellfire, tearing down the timber frame of a two-hundred-year-old bookshop. He sees his own firelight eyes darting about, blending in too much with the annihilation around him, finding no clearwater to quell the destruction. He sees the lone book he’d recovered, stiff and useless in his hand, the only thing he could save and claim for his own.

_ Enough of that_, he demands of himself. He closes a fist and sets it down on the table, a little too hard. _ Don’t run through it again. Enough_.

So instead, he thinks about the Ritz. This evening, just a few hours ago. Lunch had morphed into dinner as they sat chatting at their table for hours. There was no fire to be seen—except, maybe, a cozy log or two crackling away in a fireplace along the back wall. He didn’t hear that though; instead, he’d been listening to smooth jazz played on a black grand piano, the clink of two champagne glasses together, and the effervescent but rich bass ramblings of a certain cloud-haired angel.

Let’s think about that. About the way Aziraphale’s eyes closed slightly as he sighed, _“_ _ To the world__.”_ How the angel had reached out his hand across the table between bites of coq au vin, leaning in as he discussed which books he would seek out next for his shop, and how maybe he ought to branch out from his specialty in prophecy, because perhaps Anathema and Newt had had the right idea in burning Agnes’s other book after all. _ “After all,” he says, tilting his head ever so slightly, “We can do anything we want with our lives now, can’t we, dear?” _

But now, Crowley stops the memory. He opens his eyes, not realizing that he’d shut them. He looks down at his fingers, crawling about like spiders, tapping mindless rhythms into the table. He narrows his eyes at them, and they stop.

Time for more alcohol.

* * *

Earlier that evening, it had been Dom Perignon Reserve de L'Abbaye, requested by Aziraphale (paid for with money that surely didn’t come from the honest earnings of an overspecialized and perhaps uninviting old bookshop). It bubbled a glimmering gold in the glass, a color, Crowley couldn’t help but notice, that perfectly blended in with the angel's tan overcoat and wispy cirrus curls.

Now, Crowley pulls out a pinot noir, the deepest, bloodiest red he can find in his pantry. He pours it out with an unnecessary flourish into a crystalline glass, then sets the bottle down. It wobbles, threatening to tip; he rights it with a snap of his fingers, then tosses his head back and takes down the whole glass at once. It's so dry it scratches its way down his throat. Another, please. And another.

_ “So what will you do?” Aziraphale is still leaning forward, his hand flat on the table, inches from Crowley’s untouched plate. “Surely you want some form of occupation.” _

_ “Oh, I dunno.” The demon tilts his head, smirks through his black glasses. “Could sleep for a few centuries, perhaps.” _

_ Aziraphale rolls his eyes. It’s somehow twice as dramatic a gesture when he does it. “Nonsense. There must be things you wanted to do but didn’t have the time for.” _

_ “Well…” Crowley stares off at the sconce on the wall, his mouth hanging open a bit as he ponders. “I’ve been thinking of travel lately.” _

_ “Travel?” Aziraphale dabs a napkin to his mouth. “Anywhere specific?” _

_ “Oh, anywhere, really.” Crowley twists the stem of his glass between his fingers. “Singapore, perhaps… San Francisco…” He inhales. Turns his head to meet the angel’s eyes. “Or maybe… Alpha Centauri.” _

_ Aziraphale’s hand freezes, still holding the linen to his lips. He blinks and sets the cloth down a little too slowly. “Oh yes, that. You-you never did make it, did you.” _

_ “Nnnope.” He hesitates, running his fingernails across his thumb. Clenching the fist that sits next to Aziraphale’s. “So… What do you think, Angel?” _

Crowley’s eyes flash open again, after his third round. He chokes a little on leftover wine in the back of his throat, glares at the empty glass as though it tossed him a biting insult. Something about his spindly legs, perhaps. Or maybe it called his eyes the color of slime.

He shakes his head, looks about the kitchen. Every pearlescent countertop is spotless, of course. (He’s never figured out how to use it. When food is unnecessary, so is learning the art and science of cooking. At least, it is when one lives alone.) The stainless-steel fridge is empty but for a few trays filled with ice, for making the occasional whiskey on the rocks.

(The pantry, however, has more than a few biscuits stashed away in the back corner, stored in tartan tins. He keeps a stock of them on the backseat floor of the Bentley, meanders down to the store to restock whenever they run out. No need to waste a miracle on that.)

He’s still exhausted. Drinking more, it turns out, did nothing to remove the dull ache in his temples and the back of his neck. And now his head is filled with fog, his eyes bleary and starting to see sparkles in the faint corners of his vision.

_ Just need some sleep, _ he thinks to himself as he stumbles through the threshold and back into the hallway. His hands follow the wall again, but splayed out; no delicate tracing this time. Instead, he gropes about in the dark, one snakeskin shoe stepping on the other as his palms draw slithering trails along the blankness, up and down, up and down—

He crashes, torso slumping forward and face smashing into stone. He’s fallen into the eagle.

It rocks from his weight, forward and back on its pedestal, before righting itself again. Crowley’s head is now throbbing, split open near the hairline and bled out the color of his hair onto a cracked wing. He lurches back, bracing himself against the wall, willing his vision to clear so he can see what damage he’s done now.

The broken wing snaps and falls to the floor, leaving only a littering of ceramic shards and a cloud of dust in its wake.

_ “Oh!” Aziraphale’s eyes are so wide that the soft crow’s feet have stretched away. “You mean… Well, I…” He looks away, down at the few crumbs left on his plate. “I-I don’t know. I mean, I’ve got the old bookshop to mind… One never knows when one might get the call about a rare find, and _ — _ ” _

_ Crowley cuts him off with a snap. “Right.” He withdraws his hand, tucks his arms together. “Don’t you worry about it. I’ll find me something to do.” He finishes the rest of the champagne in one swig. “It’s a big universe. Lots of places I can go.” _

Crowley puts a hand to his head, wills the cut to seal itself up. (He does a shoddy job, leaving a jagged lightning streak outlined in red scabbing.) He steps over the broken bits of wing, kicking a few knife-sharp pieces aside as he stumbles into his bedroom.

* * *

No other being, human or ethereal, has ever set foot in Crowley's bedroom. Were he to have his way, not even God could see in here. (He wonders if She has ever bothered to look, what She would think about what She found.)

Here, he has remade the universe. His walls and ceiling are black, of course, but above his head he has miracled in dozens, maybe hundreds, of coin-sized recessed lights. They flicker ever so slightly, depending on how directly you look at them. They don't seem to move from minute to minute, but if you were to lay awake in this room all night, you'd find a different set of constellations in the morning. He has done this countless times over the years.

And so he will again. He throws himself to the bed: king-sized, 1,000-count Egyptian cotton sheets (hell-dark, but with a most subtle rust pinstripe), placed in the exact center of the space with mathematical precision. From here he can sprawl out at any angle and still watch his stars tick away the hours. Or he can look instead to the walls, where he keeps the photo prints of his galaxies, bubbling and unfurling and exploding with red dwarf and pulsar light. The spiral ones spin on their pages, as though flicked by a playful celestial hand. He knows the name of every one. (‘Course he does. No one would forget their own creations. How could they?)

But he doesn’t look at his imitation cosmos, or at the memories of what he once made. Instead, he clutches a blank black pillow with both hands, burying his bared teeth into it. He makes a sound in the back of his throat, one that he means to be a rumbling growl, but this body assigned to him just doesn’t have the timbre to make the earth shake. It always comes out a petty, vaude-villainous hiss.

“S-s-six thousand years,” he says, his teeth clenched, his forehead pressed into the pillow. “Six thousand _ bloody _ years. So s-s-stupid.” He screws his eyes shut; tighten them enough and maybe he can block out the memory, maybe he can keep the burning flush from creeping up his throat.

He stills, slides the pillow down to his chest. Lying on one side, he looks out at nothing. Blinks his putrid-yellow eyes. No miracle, of demon nor angel, can change the fact that he has the eyes of an animal, a lesser thing: something to scream at, to jump away from, to keep from stepping on. Look, there he goes now, slithering away in the grass. Look how he moves, undulating, coiling in on himself: it’s unnatural, it’s grotesque. And there’s not a damn thing he can do about it. God made sure of that when he fell.

_ Nothing ever changes, does it? _ He’s been waiting for millennia; he should know by now. “After all this, I thought… I really thought—”

He grimaces at his own drunken honesty. Tucks his knobbly knees in, then kicks them out again. Turns to the other side. No, this still doesn’t work. He sits up and tosses the pillow to the floor, swaying with a sloshing of vertigo. His head keeps spinning, long after his body stills.

“Can’t get too close, can he?” He runs chipped fingernails through his hair, digging at the roots until a few loose strands pull out. “No more archangels on his back, but it’s not enough. Can go against the, the Great Plan, maybe. But not the in-in… Ineffable one.”

He snarls; his brain is lagging behind his rage. He yanks the inebriation out, refilling the bottle of pinot noir in the kitchen (unaware that he’d tipped it over earlier, so the contents leak out onto the counter). Now he can properly stoke his wildfire fury.

“_How _ could I be _ so _ stupid?!” He leaps to his feet unconsciously, his anxious energy carrying him over to the photo of Andromeda. He taps the galaxy with one finger; it stops spinning, frozen in time (or perhaps fear). 

"Why keep trying? It's been hundreds of times,_ thousands_. Stupid, stupid." He wants to kick himself, tear at his own skin. Self destruction is an effective distraction. One pain dulls another. 

There is no correct speed, he thinks. _ Too fast _ means _ never _. You'd think he'd have worked out the pattern, would be acclimated to it. The thousandth sting shouldn't still hurt like the first. Should have built up an immunity, some antibodies to clear the poison and seal the breach. He should have scabbed over by now. (Let’s not think about how scars can still be tender, centuries later.) 

But Crowley, see, his blood runs without clotting, a hemophilia of the heart. Every new grief awakens previous grief, holds its hand and sweeps it on down the river. It’s not the worst cut in the world, he knows, losing only a potential, a could-have-been, a book without an ending. But it just so happens to slice open the same spot where his Mother once struck.

“I know why he won’t,” Crowley growls, feral thoughts on his tongue, reduced to what he expects of himself. “He can’t risk it, can he? Can’t risk falling. Then, see, he might be… might become… s-s-something like me. Can’t have that.” He sneers up at his stars. “_God _ knows we can’t have _ that_.”

His photos rip away from the walls, swirling about him in his black sanctuary. It’s not the first time he’s done this, blanketed himself with the images of his past life, a time when everything was expanding and accelerating with potential, when each newly crafted nebula filled his curious young mind with pride and he just couldn’t wait to go show Her. _ Look what I made, Mom! Do you think it’s pretty? _ (Do you even still have any of the galaxies I made? Or did you let them burn themselves away? Did you snuff them out like candlelight, or just toss them out with the fucking trash? Did you ever even _ care_?)

“_You made me! _ ” he screams, his voice already hoarse. He clenches his fists, wants to throw them out and away, far away from the core of himself — but all he can do is draw them into his chest. “You made me like this — and then called me _ unforgivable! _ Just because I dared to ask questions _ You wouldn’t answer! _ ” He paces about, in circles, in figure eights, shoving the Antennae galaxies and Dark Horse nebula out of his way. “You made me this, this _ thing_, irredeemable, too far gone, only…”

He stops moving, and so do all of his galaxies and nebulae, suspended in midair. Even the Milky Way ceases to spin.

“I still… I s-s-still _ want_.” His voice falls to a whisper, a slow exhale that whistles against his teeth. “You should have taken it _ all _ away. Don’t do this halfway. Don’t damn me, don’t steal away the beauty and the wonder and the grace, but leave me still wanting lo—”

He slams his eyes shut. He didn’t mean to say it. Had to cut himself off halfway, but it was still too much. He can’t allow himself to think that word, can’t let his imagination take hold again—

But it’s too late. Too late. His mind is a spectrum of possibility, and it’s already kicked up its heels and started to run. He’s already conjuring, mixing his paints, measuring the angles and the canvas and deciding where to place the light. This time, it’s not a memory; it’s something more dangerous, a dream.

_ They’re in bed together. Crowley’s bed, under that nocturne sky. It’s just after the first time. (There’s a first but never a last. There’s always something new to explore, to hypothesize, to experiment with and examine the results. There’s no reason he can’t be both an artist and a scientist.) Aziraphale’s cumulus curls stick to the back of his neck, slick with sweat. He still has a flush gracing his cheeks, his chest, his upper arms, even. Crowley can’t believe he’s made him feel like that. He’s never been so proud. _

_ “It’s been so long,” the angel whispers, his voice sinking low, wrapping itself around Crowley tight. So tight he never wants to escape. (Smother me with the sound of your joy, your ecstasy. I can’t wait to fill myself with you.) _

_ “I would always wait for you, Angel.” _

_ Aziraphale sighs. “And for that, I am eternally grateful. But I’m so sorry, my dear.” _

_ “Sorry for what?” _

_ “That it took me so long to understand.” Aziraphale traces an S along Crowley’s neck, then slides his fingers into the soft auburn curls on the demon’s chest. “I didn’t understand that this was love.” _

_ Crowley lifts his hand, locks his fingers with the angel’s. Aziraphale’s golden ring is cool and smooth against him. “Don’t leave me here alone,” the demon whispers. _

_ Aziraphale lifts the hand he holds, kisses it ever so slightly. “Oh, Crowley, how could I ever?” Without lifting his lips, he looks up with mischievous eyes, crinkling at the edges. “You’re too good to me.” _

But it’s too beautiful a picture to keep. In a moment, he shakes his head and sends it away, chasing it off until nothing is left in his mind but a few kicked-up slivers of gold among the dust. 

He's so exhausted. Cursing out God is, like every time he does it, a waste of energy. His words echo and dissipate in this empty space. God has never answered any of his questions before, not even the strangled cry of _ “Why?” _ as She tossed him out of Heaven. Why would She start explaining herself now?

So instead, he walks back to his bed, pushing aside the lingering images—all except one. He pauses, sees it floating near the corner of his eye, and snatches it up before collapsing back into the covers, full-force. (The bed creaks as he lands. It isn't built for that kind of casual abuse.) He rolls onto his side, then holds the paper out at arm's length, tapping the stars to make them shimmer and spin again.

This one wasn't an entire galaxy or nebula. His very first celestial assignment had been much simpler than that.

_ “Just make two stars,” She had said. Nothing complex. But he, in his youthful excitement, had put a little flourish on it, and sent the two of them spinning around each other, locked forever in an orbital embrace. _

_ Is that a smile flickering over Her face? She appraises silently for a few moments, then turns to him and says, "I knew I picked the right one." _

_ He beams with pride, angelic glitter speckling his cheeks. "Thank you, Mother." _

_ She turns back to the binary stars. "Come. We have a lot of work to do. Let's see what you make next." _

Crowley tears the image of Alpha Centauri in half. Each piece is crumpled into his fists, pounded nearly into powder. He tosses them onto the floor, one after the other; once they land they are motionless, just like him. He has no energy left, no kinetic force, no willpower left to resist his own churning and frothing thoughts.

He cries, silently. He tries to blink the tears away, but still they seep out, staining his black pillow with salt.

“I’ve s-s-scared him off, then,” he says. His voice is tied in knots. “Fine. Let him go. It’s a big universe. Lots of distance to put between us.” He swallows down a soft _ hng_, a half-suppressed sob. “Can just, just sleep it away.”

Oh, how he would like that now, his favorite vice. Sleep is the perfect solution to a world brimming over with suffering. Blink it all out, turn everything to black. The bedroom’s already ninety-five percent there; just look away from the stars, the nebulae, the lights. Oblivion can be such a seductress. Who could say they never want to shut themselves off for a while? Seal the pain away; bottle it, cork it, store it in the cellar. Save it for another day. And maybe, if he could just lull himself to sleep, he could stop pretending that he hears footsteps making their way down the apartment hall—

_ Knock knock knock. _

The serpent’s eyes fly open. He doesn’t move. (If he moves, the eagle might spot him.)

_ Knock knock knock. _

“Crowley.” The voice is faint, yet steady. “Are you home?”

A tap of the foot, a pace back and forth. He’s circling.

“_Anthony J. Crowley_, I know you’re in there. I saw the Bentley outside.”

Crowley shudders. He can’t help it; the familiar cadence of that voice is settling deep into his spine. It knows to come home here.

“Please, my dear. Open the door.”


	2. I Didn't Understand That This Was Love

Aziraphale’s bookshop says nothing of Heaven.

Heaven certainly would never allow this amount of disarray. Burgundy tomes lined in gold wedge themselves into every spare inch of the shelves, some even turned on their side to stack on top of others. There are piles _ above _ the shelves, requiring a rickety old ladder to reach. If there exists any form of cataloguing here, it would be indecipherable to the modern-day librarian. But Aziraphale doesn’t need others to understand his system; it’d be better, in fact, if they didn’t. Less bothering him that way.

Customers are a rarity, and even more so are purchases; thus, the books remain in their precarious arrangement, undisturbed for months, years, decades. One could write one’s own name in the dust that collects on the lip of each shelf. (A certain visitor has done it once or twice, just to see if the angel will notice.) The balance is delicate, but Aziraphale is the master of a slight, precise hand. Every book has found its place, and there it will remain.

He can balance many other things too: for example, the cup of peppermint cocoa perched neatly on one knee, crossed over the other leg while he skims the Celestial Observer. (The newspaper had arrived yesterday, before all that not-quite-apocalypse business; it was likely to be his last issue now. Couldn’t imagine any of the angels daring to deliver it anymore. He grins to himself, imagining the wicked face Crowley must have made, leering at them through the hellfire.)

It’s a perfect way to end the evening, really. He’s in the embroidered wingback chair by the fireplace, the heat from the flames warming his back and keeping his cocoa from growing cold. He has a plethora of reading material to choose from, and an infinite amount of time to sift through it. Just think of all of the available options: should he desire to fill in some of the gaps he’s missed throughout his six-thousand-some-odd years, he might choose _ A History of the Ancient World_. Maybe he’d like to learn more about this exquisite planet he gets to continue enjoying, and read _ On The Origin of Species _ (and damn what Heaven thinks of it!). He could expand outward even further than that, exploring the universe with _ On The Shoulders of Giants _ or _ Pale Blue Dot_. Or perhaps it’s not a night for nonfiction after all; he could dip back into that somewhat guilty pleasure of classic literary romance, and pick up _ Pride and Prejudice _ again. 

Only—it’s rather, well, _ quiet _in here, isn’t it?

He folds up the Celestial Observer and sets it down on the end table, then picks up his drink and sips. The night outside is starless, and still. No wind to curl its fingers through the cracks in the windows. No cadence of rain. No engines roaring down the once-cobblestone streets of Soho.

(No slick, fluid voice oh-so-innocently suggesting he pour another glass of champagne. No surprising softness as the dark figure lifts his hand, holds his flute out for the angel to toast, and smiles as he says, “_To the world._”)

Aziraphale looks down at the last dregs of his drink. He frowns, then sets the cup down; it clinks and clatters as it lands on its saucer. He whips his shaking hand back, tucks it under his leg to keep it still. His foot starts to twitch instead.

Now see, here's the problem with having only yourself for company: it's much harder to lie to your own face. Your body will betray you every time. And as much as he likes to think that his novels and essay collections will blanket him in solace, it doesn't change the fact that, as the firelight fades to a few crackling embers, a chill starts to settle in his bones and between his lungs. It reminds him of Heaven. (The angels had always kept it a few degrees too cold.)

He will never set foot in there again, he knows. He made his choice and will remain steadfast to it. But he has spent six millennia serving the will of the Almighty (or, at least, what Gabriel had insisted is Her will). And now that his battalion has exiled him, he's left to wonder what a soldier does without a command, without a reason to wear a uniform.

The unfortunate conclusion, he is gradually coming to realize, is that he must make his own decisions. And, possibly, his own mistakes.

_ It's such an elegant scene, so picturesque. The tiered chandeliers glimmer like starlight overhead. The delicate chime of silver against white china rings out over the piano. He thinks, perhaps, he can hear birds singing outside. Woodlarks, maybe. Or nightingales. Aziraphale doesn't want this evening to end, so he fills the space with more airy conversation. _

_ "And what will you do?" he asks Crowley. He means it to sound casual; inquisitive, but in a polite way, not intrusive. (He is, as always, weighing his tone on the scales as he speaks. Can't let it be too light _ — _ or too heavy.) They banter back and forth until Crowley finally admits, "I've been thinking of traveling lately." _

_ "Travel?" Aziraphale freezes as Crowley names places around the world, throughout the universe. All far, so very far from London. He hadn't expected this. He's disappointed in himself for not knowing to expect it. _

_ "Or maybe…" Crowley pauses, looking away for a moment. "Maybe Alpha Centauri." _

_ "Oh yes, that," the angel says. He can feel his breath catch in his throat, and forces it out a little too quick. "You-you never did make it, did you.” _

_ “Nnnope.” The demon's fist is clenching, the one resting right next to Aziraphale's. “So… What do you think, Angel?” _

He brings himself out of the memory with a slight shudder. He wraps his arms around himself; that awful draft just keeps creeping in.

Time for more cocoa.

* * *

There's a nondescript wooden door behind the last row of easternmost shelves, designed to blend in and go unnoticed by mortals. If we slip through it behind him, we can follow Aziraphale into his kitchen.

The angel inhales deeply and relaxes. He's filled his favorite sanctuary with all the olfactory and gustatory offerings of the world: a spinning spice rack sits at the edge of the counter, wafting the scents of saffron, coriander, and cloves about the air. Fruit baskets wait for him, overladen, pyramids of apples and pears and oranges stacked meticulously within, as though forming the foundations of a temple. (Though truthfully, the grandest altar in this room gives glory to Bacchus; he has arranged bottles of chardonnay and cabernet sauvignon in an artful display case on the wall, a wave-shaped cage that traps its contents in curling iron tendrils.) Every inch competes for attention, for a breath or a bite.

It's enough to distract him for a little while. Besides, it's near midnight—the perfect time for a snack. 

Now, time to make decisions. He approaches the basket of apples, appraises its offerings. Honeycrisps are in season, as are ambrosias, so he's stocked up on both. But although their ruby stripes stand out in the stack, he passes them by. It's always hard to resist a classic ginger gold. 

He picks one up, sinks his teeth into the smooth skin. The saccharine flavor floods his tongue, seeps into every cell. He has it memorized, the taste of this one.

_ “Oh! You mean…” Aziraphale looks down at Crowley’s hand, resting inches from his. Tapping out stilted rhythms on the tablecloth. _

_ The angel can’t think of anything to say. _

_ “Well, I… I-I don’t know.” _

_ (You don’t know? How can you not know by now? How many times have we done this dance, this eternal circling around without a connection? You know what happens next. There’s always some reason.) _

_ “I mean, I’ve got the old bookshop to mind…” _

_ (We can’t disturb our orbit, after all. What happens when binary stars drift too close together? Do you really want to risk the collision? Do you? Do you want that weight to surround you, breathe you in, absorb you until you are nothing but a flash of white light in the enthralling dark? What if the answer is _ —_) _

_ “One-one never knows when one might, well, might get the call about a rare find,” he stutters out, desperate to drown his thoughts with noise. He hardly knows which words are spilling out. “A-And _ — _ ” _

_ But Crowley cuts him off with a snap. “Right.” He withdraws his hand, tucks his arms together. Turns his head away. “Don’t you worry about it. I’ll find me something to do.” He’s looking out the window as he downs the last of his champagne. “It’s a big universe. Lots of places I can go.” _

(Aziraphale bites into the apple again. Harder. His jaw stings in retaliation, as he intends it to.)

_ They leave the restaurant not long after that. They walk down the stairs to the street wordlessly, their steps perfectly in sync. Once they reach the road, they pause; the Bentley is parked just a few spaces down. _

_ “So, this is it then,” Crowley says. No offering a lift his time. _

_ “Yes,” Aziraphale says, his voice low and steady. He’s wrangled control of it again, and intends to keep it that way. “I do suppose it is.” _

_ “Guess it’s hard to have an Arrangement with no jobs to do,” Crowley muses to the blackness above. He glances at the angel, but only for a second. “You can keep on blessing the mortals if you like, I suppose.” He cranes back to look at the sky again, perhaps searching for stars. “Think I’m rather done with temptations though.” _

_ Aziraphale watches the curve of his neck and swallows. “Oh yes, I, um, I’m quite finished with all of that business,” he says, pretending he hasn’t stuttered again. “The humans can do a decent enough job on their own.” _

_ “You getting yourself a ride then?” _

_ “I’ll call a cab.” Aziraphale pulls a wallet from the pocket of his coat. “Got just enough left over, I think.” _

_ “Right.” Crowley turns away, the shields of his sunglasses hiding his bright eyes. “Then I’ll see you around…” He hesitates. His voice sinks. “Angel.” He puts his hands in his pockets and begins to saunter away. _

_ Aziraphale watches the dark figure go as his sharp edges blend into the evening, save for his firelight hair and the lingering scent of ginger gold. After a few silent moments, the angel whispers, “My dear.” But it’s too soft for Crowley to hear. _

Now he’s finished his apple, all but the last bite. He chews the leftover meat of it, but the flavor's long since been sucked away; the pulp sticks in his throat as he swallows.

(Wash it down, angel, wash it away with some wine. A bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, perhaps. It's waiting right there on the shelf. Don't hold back, don't set out a second glass; there's no one else else here to share it. You made damn sure of that, didn't you?)

* * *

It’s an hour later, and the angel is very, very drunk.

He’s collapsed into one of the chairs at his tiny round dining table, situated underneath the window like a booth at a cafe. (It has room for just one other seat, on the opposite side. Aziraphale stored that chair away though. Why have it take up space when no one sits in it?) He slouches, a nearly-empty glass in one hand. The other hand is against his forehead, massaging his temples while he mutters to himself.

“So much time,” he says, through gritted teeth. “So much… wasted… time.”

He’s not even sure what he’s referring to, exactly. It could be the millennia he spent serving Heaven, perhaps. How many hours had he spent brandishing a sword for them? For what? He thought it was his job as a principality, a soldier of the Almighty, to uphold the highest ideals, those things that were unequivocally good. What was the point of being on Heaven’s side if they didn’t value peace? 

There, at least, he could believe in himself, in having made the right choice. But he couldn’t deny that it stung, that being exiled, while perhaps not being officially Fallen, still felt like setting his wings alight. After all, these had once been his comrades-in-arms, let’s not forget. (What hurts the most about Falling is the grief, the loss. It’s the knowledge that the ones who once enveloped you in what you thought was love can later turn to stone upon your touch. It’s the realization that everything you are, that which is your _ definition_, your reason to say “I am, I exist, I take up space and time for _ this_,” might be something they will reject. And, most ironically, we must accept that.) 

Heaven doesn’t want him as he is, this much he understands. He just wishes he’d learned it long before now. Before he’d had the chance to take the rejection and pay it forward.

“_H-he _wasted so much time,” Aziraphale whispers, his head falling into his shaking hand. “So many years. Protecting me.”

He remembers the beginning of it, in the Globe. How Crowley paced around him as they made another Arrangement, scanning the onlookers for unnatural eyes: for buzzing and growling whispers, yes, but also for flashes of violet and gold. He covered all the blind spots, looking for the things that hid from the angel but also reading those things the angel hid from himself. Crowley had seemed strangely sad that day, even when smiling; Aziraphale thought he just didn’t like tragedies. 

He remembers France too. How _ convenient _ it had been that Crowley was “in the area” to break him free.

And as for the church… How long must Crowley have been waiting for that moment after their fight, maintaining his distance but also keeping a watchful eye on the growing malevolence of the dregs of humanity, knowing there would come a moment that Aziraphale found himself truly outclassed by sheer evil? How long must the demon have been his silent guardian, analyzing each chess piece that slid and jumped around his white king, calculating the most likely angle of attack?

(So you _ do _understand how the other star’s been circling you.)

Aziraphale tosses his wine glass aside. It shatters on the floor, a bloodred stain pooling into the ornate Persian rug at his feet. He doesn’t bother to miracle it away. 

“_How _ could I be so _ stupid? _” He lifts his throbbing head just enough to remove the golden ring on his finger. Holds it in his palm, stares blankly at it until his vision crosses. “A real fool, s’what I am.”

He looks up, at the bronze armillary sphere sitting in the center of the dining table. For two hundred years, it has pointed to the east. With a mental flick, he sends the arrows and rings spinning, whirling about on their many axes. On which direction will they eventually land?

. . .

A few minutes later and Aziraphale has stumbled into his bedchamber, into the towering four-poster bed in the middle of a tiny room that's ill-equipped to contain it. He looks so small in it, drowned by a dozen tasseled pillows and a swell of burgundy sheets radiating out. His hair flows out with it, his curls tracing the subtle ivory paisleys embroidered into the silk.

The angel, of course, has a taste for the finest things. And in this room, locked away from all other prying eyes, he keeps as many prizes as he can fit; nearly every available inch of the walls is covered by Byzantine silk tapestries and impressionist oil paintings of couples walking down garden promenades. However, his favorite decoration is the vintage photograph hanging above the headboard, capturing a couple caught in the rain; the elegantly dressed man holds up a white umbrella to shield the woman in red. He looks up at this one through bleary eyes.

"I took too long," he whispers, hand over his mouth as though that will prevent the truth from spilling out. "Why, you stupid angel? _ What _ are you so afraid of?"

He closes his eyes and imagines what could be. He sees an evening stroll down the boardwalk, hand in hand, with the smell of a saltwater breeze and the cackling of circling gulls. He sees a wicker picnic basket laid out in St. James Park, overflowing with fruits and crackers and oddly-shaped cheeses (while his dark companion merely grins from behind another glass of wine). He sees a half-eaten box of chocolate truffles on his kitchen table, on the 300th anniversary of opening his shop, an untied red ribbon lying beside them.

Here's the thing about the angel: he, too, knows how to paint the most luscious fantasies with the mind. But, unlike Crowley, he keeps them under lock and key, stuffed in a weathered mahogany chest in the wardrobe. They don't flow freely from him; he's always taken every precaution to contain them, to distract himself by fulfilling other slightly-less-than-heavenly passions. (Replacing desire with gluttony was the easiest conversion: there are few longings in this world that can't be temporarily dulled by a plate of maguro sashimi.) Shove them in the box, no one will know. No one can see. 

(The paper corners always peek through the gaps between the latches. He doesn't hide as well as he thinks.)

But he's had six thousand years to fill that chest with canvases and scrolls, and he's stuffed it to the very brim, pushing each yearning down, down, flattening them out to make space for more. He should've known that one day the lock would break.

And so it does, here, alone in a bed built for two. The tears spill from him as he imagines his own fingers curled into a chaotic mess of wildfire hair, a sideways smile pressed into his neck, leaving slight bruise marks as the demon works his way down. He sees those golden eyes, memorizing every available inch of him, and it feels like the warmth from a midsummer sun. 

He hears words, spoken a bit too vulnerably to be real—maybe "I would always wait for you,” or "Please, stay with me, don’t leave me here alone.” (Most sinfully, he also imagines a halting, guttural cry of _ "I-I love you, Angel," _ growled into his collarbone, with the glorious sting of black nails grazing his back.)

But then he turns to memories, to "Lift home?" and "Alpha Centauri, no one will ever notice us," and "You can stay at my place, if you like," spoken with gentleness, and he sinks under his own crushing weight as he remembers the countless times he’s rejected the love that was so freely offered.

(You’ve been in such a distant orbit for so long, always passing by silently in the night. I know you fear the supernova; you’re afraid it means your own annihilation, the loss of control and the blurring of the definition of “I.” But the moment of creation is always terrifying too, that combination of two dissimilar things into something new and strange. Have you considered that binary stars might be even more beautiful if allowed to touch?)

The idea of giving in to his dreams terrifies him. Change always has. (This should be no surprise, given the rotary phone on his rolltop desk and the Victorian-era coat hanging on the rack.) He doesn’t have a script for this, no chart of the constellations to guide his way across the churning sea. Nothing to help him understand what his unfettered desire is capable of.

But as he lays there, saltwater tributaries on his cheeks and eyes outlined in red, he realizes—it’s his turn to be the brave one. Crowley has always been the one to ask _ why, _ to take a blind step out into the dark, to look up at the brewing thunderclouds and say, _ It doesn’t need to go this way. We could make it better. _He’s said it to Aziraphale dozens, thousands of times—from Mesopotamia and Golgotha to the Kingdom of Wessex, and continued to say it in the overcrowded streets of London. It is familiar, the questions and the imagining of something more. And whether we plan to build a castle or a cottage in the South Downs, or explore all the stars and galaxies of the universe (or maybe just take a weekend trip, 4.3 light years away), the “What if?” is always the first step.

The asking has already been done. He needs only to answer.

Love, they say, is an action. It’s in the reaching out, the offering. “Alright, I’ll do this one. My treat.” It’s in the miraculous rescue of a briefcase of old books. “Let’s run away together.” Love is an act of service, a choice to be made, to intertwine our hands and say, “We choose us. Together. Our own side." Love is deciding to walk in the direction of peace.

Heaven couldn't teach him this. He's privileged, he knows, that he’s managed to learn it at all, from anyone. But now that he has, he will embrace it, give it sunlight and daily water and an earthenware pot by the window. He’ll cultivate his little garden wherever it takes root. To love, he knows, is to grow.

But first, he has to apply the lesson. Before Crowley can pack his bags and drive away.

(Now, Angel. You need to move. Now.)

. . .

He’s on his feet, the inebriation hastily wiped away. He rushes out the bedroom door, past the kitchen, through the bookshop aisles. Grabs his coat from the rack, flings the door open. (Almost forgets to lock it on the way out, then fumbles with the keys.)

He miracles a taxi to appear within a minute (hopelessly confusing the poor cabbie, who had been intending to drive to Highbury) and pays extra as he says, "I apologize for the inconvenience, but this is exceedingly important, you see." He nudges the speedometer dial ever-so-slightly as they roar through the nighttime streets, city lights blurring into streaks of white and red outside the window.

Within minutes he has arrived. As he steps out, he glances around for the Bentley, looking for a reflective sheen in the blackness; when he finally sees it, he exhales a heavy breath. (He didn't realize he'd been holding it in.) Nearly every window in the towering apartment building is dark; it's after one a.m. now. Nearly every tenant is sound asleep. But he has a strong suspicion that Crowley isn't.

He walks inside, takes the stairs up to Crowley's floor. Paces down the hall. (It seems much shorter than it was before; is that possible?) Soon the ornate brass knocker comes into view; he walks up to it and swallows the knot in his throat.

Nothing left for it then, is there?

_ Knock knock knock. _

Silence. No shuffling of steps.

“Crowley.” He speaks softly, hoping not to wake the neighbors. “Are you home?”

He waits, counting each second. Five, ten, thirty, sixty. Still nothing.

He hasn't come all this way to be shut out now. He lifts the knocker and raps it again, louder.

“_Anthony J. Crowley_, I know you’re in there. I saw the Bentley outside.”

Still no answer. His hands twitch; he locks them behind his back, but just starts pacing back and forth instead.

What if it's too late? Perhaps there's no coming out of this now. He's already broken the orbit, shifted the delicate balance of gravity too far. Perhaps the other has started his drift away, too far off now to catch. Will he just watch, helplessly, as Crowley disappears into the dark, on a new outward trajectory? Maybe he will intercept a new star, one with more flash. One that spins on a tighter axis. (Probably drives faster, too.)

“Please, my dear." He closes his eyes, wills himself to be steady. "Open the door.”

He breathes. In, out. In, out. It's all he can do. Breathe, wait, listen.

(Did you hear? A sound, a stumble, a step—)

The door creaks open. Crowley stands there, slouching, head propped against the doorframe. His hair is an absolute mess, sticking up in many improbable directions. And a jagged bloody line traces its way across his furrowed brow.

"Az… Aziraphale?" His eyes—the gold fully eclipsing the white, and blinking a bit too much—are outlined in red.

The angel isn't sure what he expected to see, but it certainly wasn't this. He gasps and puts one hand to his mouth. "Oh, my dear." He instinctively reaches out with the other, his fingers inches from the wound. "What on Earth have you done to your head?"

Crowley waves his hand away. "Oh, that. 'Sss nothing. Don't fret over it, Angel." He glances out into the hall, back and forth, checking for other eyes on them. There are none. "So, why…" He gingerly touches his forehead, grimacing from the sting. "_Why _ are you here this late?"

Aziraphale straightens his shoulders. "I need—" The sentence sticks in his throat. He coughs it out. "I need to talk to you."

It's two a.m. "Aaand… it couldn't wait until a _ decent _ hour?"

"No. Not this time." Aziraphale sets his jaw straight, lifts his chin a little to look Crowley directly in the eyes. "I'm done with waiting."

Crowley stares at him, mouth hanging slightly ajar. He says nothing, but backs up to let the angel in.

The lights in the foyer are dim, but brighter than the hall had been. Underneath them, Aziraphale can see his swollen, red-rimmed eyes more clearly, along with the shine of tear streaks down the sharp slopes of his face. The demon looks off toward the coat closet, as though he wants to hide in it.

_ I’ve done this to him, _ Aziraphale knows, and that knowledge makes his stomach churn. He wants to clutch at his heart, swallow down the bile that simmers up into his throat. _ Stupid, stupid, stupid. _He can’t undo six thousand years of rejections, he knows. Even ethereals are bound to our dimensions, can only move forward in time.

But he can ensure his fallen angel never cries for him again.

“Crowley…” He looks down and sees the demon’s fingers gripping the edge of his black shirt, twisting the fabric into knots. “I’m so, so sorry.” 

“S-s-sorry?” Crowley dares to steal a glance at him. “‘Bout what?”

“I… I didn’t understand.” He steps forward. Once, twice. Closing the distance. Burning brighter.

They are one step apart now.

Crowley’s voice drops to something fleeting, to a draft caught in the crack of a window. He bites his own lip, digging into the pouting skin. “Angel—”

“Please, I, I need you to know this.” Aziraphale can feel his own voice cracking, turning rough and unpolished as he starts to fumble through his script. Normally, he would try to steady it. But now isn’t the time. “We’ve been together for centuries, Crowley. Hundreds, thousands of years… And I’ve noticed everything you’ve done for me. The protection, the gifts, the rescues and lifts home. All of it.” He breathes in. “I know now, I know that’s how you say you love me.”

Crowley looks away, screws his eyes shut. (If his hair were longer, he’d be hiding behind it.)

"And I've, I've turned you away. Again and again." He can feel his own eyes beginning to sting again. "Oh God, I've been… I hate thinking about this, I just hate it. What an idiot I've been."

Crowley says nothing. (There's plenty of things he _ could _ say, many of them warranted. Aziraphale is grateful that he doesn't.)

The angel bites his lip. He knows it's his turn to be vulnerable. "You, you must understand, my dear, it was _ never _ from not wanting to be with you. You need to know that." 

Crowley's clenched teeth are starting to show, slight fangs cutting into the meat of his lip. (He's going to make himself bleed again.)

"Crowley, you have no idea, _ no idea _ how much I desire you. It — it _ spills _ from me, my dear. I could hardly contain it, all these years."

"Aaangel, _ please_." The demon growls, bares his teeth like a predator in a cage. He clutches the collar of his own shirt as if it strangles him. "You can't, you can't say that if you don't—if you don't mean it—"

Aziraphale shakes his head. "The only reason I've let you down is because…" His face hardens. He looks down, scowling at his shoes. It’s the closest he can come to looking disgusted at himself. "I thought I didn't deserve you."

Crowley stiffens. His fingers stop twitching. He turns his head slightly, peering back at the angel out of one serpentine eye.

"I didn't believe," Aziraphale continues, "That this was something I really could have.” He huffs a small laugh to himself, a bit derisive. “Who, _ me? _ How could that, that clever, inquisitive, _ beautiful _ being choose someone like, like this old fool, someone, well, moronic enough to give away his God-given sword and lie to the Almighty Herself?"

And there's the smile, cracking its way across Crowley's face. The earth has begun to shake him open. "That was—that was _ the _ moment, you know,” he says. His voice is a whisper at first, the soft hiss of a kettle. “You and your—your pretty face.”

Aziraphale’s mouth twitches halfway into a coy smile, his eyes flickering up and down again. (Me? All curving lines, ebbs and flows? He forgets that sometimes the jagged rock _ wants _ to be surrounded by the stream, to have its fractures filled in, to erode on all sides.)

Crowley continues, building his timbre back. “It’d been all of, what, five minutes, maybe, and—and you just out and admitted—to a _ demon, _ mind you — that you'd — you’d _ defied God _ to do what _ you _ thought was good.” He bites his lip, shakes his head. “It was just hopeless, really." 

Despite himself, Aziraphale is beaming, flushing pink from cheeks to throat. A rushing river, indeed. "_Eden?” _he says, voice twisted in knots. “That early? We hadn’t even had lunch yet!"

Crowley smirks a little, eyes partway shut. "Where's that sass coming from, Angel?"

"Oh please, you know it's always been there." He softens again. "Crowley, all I knew for so long were platitudes. Hollow sounds, really. Heaven taught me the words but gave me no definitions.” He stares up at the ceiling now, thinking of sterile hallways and light that blinds. It had been so _ cold. _ “I was told to always give love to others, but I…” His brow wrinkles. He’s somehow surprised by his own conclusion. “I don’t think they ever did allow me to receive it."

Crowley closes his eyes again, sucks in air so as not to snarl. "Bastards," he growls anyway.

"So I, I just couldn't understand. Not until you taught me. Until you gave to me so honestly, so freely."

It's time. He reaches out and takes Crowley's hand. Holds it between both of his, tries to steady the tremble.

"I didn't understand that _ this _ is love." He squeezes tight. "I'm so sorry I took so long."

Finally he steps forward, closing the gap. He rests his forehead against Crowley's, hands still locked together. He can feel hot tears streaming down his face, flowing from two sets of eyes.

"Aziraphale." Crowley sounds out every syllable, like he's learning the first word in a brand-new language. He pulls his head back, to look at the angel more closely. "Tell me what you want. I… I have to hear it."

Aziraphale closes his eyes, focuses on the feel of Crowley's slim fingers curling into his. "I want everything you've already offered. All of it. I want you to drive me around the countryside, as fast as you like. Take me out for morning crepes and afternoon tea. And on the weekends, let's visit the stars." 

He lifts Crowley's hand up to his lips and kisses it.

"When I say_'to the world,' _I mean a world with you next to me." He keeps his mouth on Crowley's hand, but lifts his eyes as he kisses again. And again. (Leave no part of him untouched. Envelop him, smooth away the serrated edges. Fill in the cracks with gold. Just think; he would look so beautiful with gilded scars.) "I… I want to say yes to you. If you'll have me."

He looks up at Crowley and sees an angel made of glass, a thing so fragile he could be blown aside and broken into a million glimmers of refracting light. Something to handle with care. 

“A-Aziraphale,” he says, unblinking, staring like he’s watching the birth of a star. “Do you really understand what that means?” He steps back, just a little. Still clutching the angel’s hand, so hard his nails dig into Aziraphale’s palms. “You know me, I don’t… I don’t want things halfway. I…” 

Those amber eyes trace the angel down, from the crown of his platinum curls to his Oxford shoes, and back up again. The path meanders, lingering on the curves. (Aziraphale tries to contain the shudder that starts in the middle of his back. Doesn’t quite manage it.) 

“What if,” Crowley whispers, with a voice that sinks low and curls up at the angel’s feet, “What if it’s too much for you? Everything I want?”

Now Aziraphale thinks he might be the one to come undone, right here, shaking on unsteady legs in the middle of an entrance hall. But he rights himself enough to grin, his soft crow’s feet pulling at his eyes, and say, “Do you really think, after all this time, that I haven’t read the book of you?” He turns his head to the side, as if that might somehow hide his red-mottled neck. (Even if it did, he betrays himself by glancing up at Crowley anyway.) “My dear, you are many things, but, well, subtle is not one of them.”

Crowley gives him a one-sided smirk in agreement. “No point in pretense, Angel.”

“I guess… I guess that’s another thing I must learn from you.” Aziraphale’s clearwater eyes widen and he raises his chin, lifting his soft smile until it hovers inches from Crowley’s lips. “My love, after all these years, all this dancing around each other, surely you _ must _ know… I want it all.”

The angel takes Crowley’s head in his hands and kisses him.

He had feared, somewhere in the back of his mind, that it would burn, that a demon’s kiss might scald him. Might leave a smoldering mark, might brand him forever. But it does nothing of the sort. No, instead he’s been pulled from the lake, saved from the lungcrush of frigid, glacial water. Now he knows oxygen for the first time. He isn’t aflame at all; he simply hadn’t realized he’d been drowning all these years.

Now he can finally breathe.

“Please,” the fallen angel whispers against his lips (and Aziraphale will never, _ never _ tire of hearing that word there), “Don’t leave me here alone.”

“Oh, my love. How could I?” The angel holds both sides of Crowley’s face in his hands, his fingers tracing along the tear streaks, wiping them away. “You’re too _ good _ to me.”

The angel lifts his hands into red-dawn hair, stroking and wrapping his fingers around; at one point he tugs a little, just to learn the reaction. (Crowley makes a soft _ mmmph _ against his mouth. It’s exactly what he wanted to hear.) He breaks the kiss, and earns a slight groan in response, but _ never fear, my dear, I’m not pulling away, not for one second. _ He’s just finding somewhere new to touch.

_ I will learn it all_, he thinks as his lips trace along a surprisingly soft cheek, spending an extra moment on the twisting serpent tattoo. (Crowley’s knees shake against him as he hovers there. He will definitely remember this for later.) Then down, down along the jaw and the neck that tastes of salt, that hums against his mouth. He’ll memorize every inch, catalogue every scent and sound. Write them all down, bind them in a gold-leaf journal. Script it in helldark ink. (And unlike the stuffed-away scrolls of _ what if_, he’ll keep his mental record of _ real _ out in plain view. Maybe he’ll frame it in a shadowbox, display it above the bed. Maybe he’ll preserve it in the glass case, alongside his rarest books of prophecy. Or maybe—oh, fuck it, maybe he’ll hang every page in the front window. Let everyone see. Tell them what’s _ his_.)

They both can barely stand now.

“Can… can I stay here tonight?” Aziraphale whispers into Crowley’s collarbone.

Crowley fumbles about for the angel’s hand, finally pulling tight when he finds it. “Y-you sure?” He glances down the back hall, toward the bedroom. “If you’re not ready—I mean, whatever you want—”

_ “Crowley.” _ Aziraphale shakes his head a little, chuckling as he bites his lip. He pulls away, but only to start a long stride down the hall. “Isn’t six thousand years enough?” He tugs at Crowley’s hand, pulling the stumbling demon up into his chest again. “Perhaps I need to say it more clearly.” He leans in, hovering over the other’s ear. “I want, by the end of tonight, for you to forget every word on Earth except my name.”

That’s more than enough. Crowley does the pulling now, taking them nearly at a sprint. Past the dining room, past the garden, down the hall—

—and into the mess of the broken eagle lectern, littering the floor with dust and shards of wing.

“Oh, yeah,” Crowley mumbles, pulling them to a halt. “Forgot about that.”

Aziraphale pauses, looking down at the ceramic fragments, then back up at Crowley’s red-lightning cut. “So _ this _ is what happened.”

“Yeeeah. Um. Got a little drunk.”

Aziraphale sighs. “As did I.” He stares at the one-winged eagle still on the podium, frowning at it for a moment. Then, he remembers. “Wait. This lectern, it’s from—”

“The Blitz. Yeah.”

The angel raises an eyebrow and smirks. “And _ why _ did you steal it from the church?”

“Eh, little souvenir.” Crowley shrugs, clearly trying to look nonchalant, but his face is still flushed and he can’t seem to stop grinning now. “‘Sss from that moment I gave you the books back. Wanted something to remember that look on your face.”

“Oh, good Lord.” Aziraphale rolls his eyes (while failing to conceal a coy smile), then looks down at the broken wing on the floor. “So, _ how _ exactly did you—”

Crowley’s grin fades. “I… I fell.”

_ Oh. _

“Well then, let’s set it right, shall we?” With an upward flick of the wrist, the pieces of broken wing coalesce together again, then cement back into place on the eagle. “Looks like it got rather burnt too,” he notices. “Perhaps I should—”

“Nah, don’t worry about that.” Crowley takes his hand again. “It’s better that way.”

Aziraphale softens. “Of course.” He lifts his free hand up to Crowley’s face. “But let me at least fix this, my dear.”

His fingertips follow the jagged line, erasing the wound behind them. (Although, if you look closely, you might still see a glint of gold along that line. In just the right light.) The fallen angel is made whole again.

“Right,” Crowley whispers, kissing Aziraphale’s forehead in return. He laces their fingers together, rubbing his thumb against the angel’s palm. “So, where were we?”

“Well, I think you were leading me in here,” the angel says, tilting his head toward the open bedroom door. 

Crowley nods. He blinks at him, slowly, with a rapturous smile. (It’s the same one that he wore the moment he heard _ I gave it away._) “After you.”

Aziraphale steps over the threshold, but before taking in any of this brand-new, unexplored space, he turns back and pulls Crowley through. “You know, my dear, I was thinking…”

Crowley’s hands are already fiddling with Aziraphale’s shirt, looking for buttons to undo. “Yeah, Angel?”

“Well, maybe, in the morning… You know, once we’re, um, well rested…”

Crowley makes a _ ngk _ sound into Aziraphale’s neck, trying (and failing) not to laugh.

“As I was saying…” The angel wraps his arms around Crowley’s waist, beaming at his dark companion. “Perhaps, in the morning, we can go out for some crepes—"

Crowley hums into Aziraphale’s hair. "Has anyone ever told you that you're a _ bit _ predictable?"

"_And_, while we're there… We can plan a trip to Alpha Centauri.”

For a moment, Crowley stills. He lifts his head, staring silently with wide golden eyes. Then he lunges forward, pulling his angel into himself again, closing the final distance. (Enough of the orbit. Let your gravity pull me in, let us become an unstoppable force. We will be so resplendent as we collide.) They only stop long enough for Crowley to whisper into Aziraphale’s ear, _ “Can’t wait to show you.” _

(And, with a flick of the angels’ wrists, the door swings shut behind them.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I really don't know what 'I love you' means. I think it means 'Don't leave me here alone.'"  
― Neil Gaiman, Adventures in the Dream Trade
> 
> Thank you so much for sharing this with me, dear reader! I hope you liked reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Perhaps this will be the first of several new fanfics here...? And enjoy the bonus art as well. :)
> 
> (P.S. Ten points to the house of your choice if you find: A. the title of a Queen song, and B. the paragraph where I worked in Michael and David's last names. XD)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for taking time out of your busy day to read this story! It's been about a dozen years since I wrote a fanfic (oh God, I'm aging myself there, aren't I?), so I'm very nervous/excited to hear what you all think.
> 
> And part 2 is already drafted, so it won't take *too* long to post, I promise!


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